Wicked Boy (54) (Patreon)

(Hey guys!  I hope you’re still enjoying Wicked Boy.

Chapter 55 is on the way, and thankfully, full of Ezra 🥰.  I was going to post 54&55 at the same time, but instead cut this chapter in half because I was feeling sorry about the wait.  To be upfront, I had a rough December with burnout, mental health issues, and the holidays, so I will be more diligent this month in getting Wicked Boy content your way.  

Wicked Boy is about to get into more exciting territory, AKA, healing and therapy, the life of Ezra, and the backstory of Ezra.  Also, if you feel as if Milan and Tamela’s friendship is one-sided at the moment, don’t worry!  She is not a satellite friend, meant to bolster the main character.  The unevenness of their relationship  is intentional.  This will be addressed in therapy.   Everyone in this book has their own story.  It’s all about healing.

This chapter is basically a set up for the next chapter, which will also be pretty long 😭 finally some Ezra character exposition is coming in 55!)

—

"I texted you yesterday."  Tamela stares, incredulous.  I return her stare with gathered brows, tugging my cellphone away from her line of sight.  "I said, 'are you free tonight?'  Then I came over, and you helped me choose a dress — I helped you clean wine stains and pack, and then I slept on the floor with you."

"With various complaints about all of the above.  Yes,"  I huff as my alarm to eat and drink water sounds, standing.  I stretch, my back cracking before I circle the bare kitchen island.  I don't necessarily feel like eating or drinking, but Ezra said that I was doing good — Tamela, who's laughing and smiling more than ever, said that I let her in, and my stomach growls.  "Believe it or not, I haven't fallen into any operatic episodes of amnesia lately."

"Milan."

I reach for a glass, wagging Tamela's leftovers from lunch in her direction like maybe she'll drop her weird, passive-aggressive tangent and instead latch onto her appetite.

She doesn't and somewhat balks at the offending brown box before sighing.

"Okay.  Let me rephrase. I texted you, are you free tonight, and when I sent that, I wanted to...?"  Tamela waves her hand in front of her, like this is a terrible game of catchphrase, waiting for me to telepathically continue her unsaid sentence.

"Come over, yes."  I roll my eyes.  "I know Ezra wants to come over.  I said why.  Why does he want to? I'm all packed up.  There's not even a television here."

"Oh my God,"  Tamela snorts, "you're an idiot.  Why wouldn't he want to come over?  He'd stare at a wall with you at this point.  He's practically obsessed with you."

My heart thumps in a strange betrayal, and I pause in my rummaging just long enough to lose any appearance of discreetness.  Then I scoff, closing a cabinet a little too loudly,

"I've been nothing but a pain in the ass."  I inhale, the water from the sink spilling over the edges of my cup before I think to turn the faucet off.  "I can't figure out his intentions.  I'm convinced that he's a saint reincarnated, and to him, I'm a pitiful drunk who needs his saintly guidance.  It's his spiritual obligation."

"Saint or not, I've pegged this whole thing,"  Tamela pops open a pack of gum, wrinkling the foil wrapper between her fingers with boredom.  "As obsession.  You were gifted with the Minett brand of beauty, and you're notoriously hard to get.  The thrill of the chase is probably oozing out of his pores."

"... The chase?"

"Yes.  Ez is absurdly hot and likely isn't used to not getting what he wants at the first little show of a dimple."  Tamela flicks the wrapper in my direction, and impressively, it bounces from my midsection and lands on the counter.  She snaps her fingers, an allusion to swiftness.  "And with you, it's been months."

"Months where I see him sporadically at best.  And he's not that type.  He doesn't,"  I grit my teeth with my loss of words because describing Ezra is hard.  Because he was right — because I don't know him.  "... I know what you're talking about.  Clark was that type.  Ezra is — he's just a good person.  He's kind."

"I know, I know.  But.  All men are kind when they're chasing you.  No offense to Ezra."  She lazily stretches out against the ground.  "He's chasing you, isn't he?  Chased you here, to Jameson's pub and back.  It's a large-scale hunt, at this point."

"He was making sure that I was okay."

"Well.  Remember Renaldo Castillo?"

I try to swallow my water, but my pulse turns into an anxious sort of rhythm.  This almost feels like we're speaking ill of Ezra — or maybe, it feels like Tamela is needling all my doubts.  It churns a sick feeling in my stomach.

"The greasy claims clerk at Basel & Bertram?"  I set my cup down with a frown.  "Ezra isn't anything like Renaldo."

"Uh, okay, loverboy.  Morals aside, Renaldo is a perfect example of a man loving the chase.  In his case — it was geared towards married women.  Still hard to get."  Tamela inspects her nails.  "It's a proven phenomenon.  You've said it yourself: Clark."

No.  Ezra isn't Clark.

If I had offered myself up to Clark — drunk or not, Clark would've...

"I was asking why Ezra wanted to come over, not your analysis on why he's likely as shitty as every other man we've met."  I feel a bitterness creeping into my tone.  "And — Ezra doesn't talk about you like this.  He's never said a negative word about you, actually."

"...Shit."  Tamela fumbles, shifting so that her gaze can meet mine.  There's a contriteness spilling into her expression.  "Christ, I swear — that's not what I meant to do.  The gossiping bitch in me took over again."

"You aren't a bitch, Tamela."  Everything in me wants to shut off, shut down the exchange, change the topic, and leave my annoyance unsaid.  But.  Honesty.  Be honest.  "But — this conversation is making me — it's making me feel insecure and uncomfortable."

Tamela flinches, surprised and at a loss for words.  I feel embarrassed with my directness, my cheeks heating, and my palms clammy.  Talking — talking, explaining myself, it always feels humiliating.

Why?

"... No, you're right.  I'm not a bitch."  Tamela starts carefully.  "I just happen to get possessed by one who'd like to sabotage your relationships on occasion."  She bites her lip, her chest heaving, when she sucks a breath through her teeth.  "I worry.... About people's intentions and.  Well.  Thanks for — um.  Thanks for telling me how you feel."

It's awkward.  Her tone is clipped with her uneasiness, words that neither of us would typically exchange, but I'm thankful for the apology.  I want to right this air with something that isn't so heavy.

I want friendship.

".... To be truthful.  I didn't tell you everything about the drunken porch swing incident."  I press my palms against my pockets to dry them or perhaps to steady myself and my bizarre maneuvers towards connection.  I try to tack on a joke, "the one you blissfully slept through."

Tamela laughs softly, grateful, and she smiles.

"Trust me," she straightens.  "There's nothing blissful about sleeping on a bed that smells like cologne after vomiting for an hour straight."

"You know what I mean,"  I bring both our leftovers to the vacant living room, sitting beside her and pushing her container in her direction.  She takes it from me with another hesitant smile.  "And.  Thanks — Uh.  For coming with me that night.  I don't think I thanked you.  And I didn't thank you for — not questioning my decisions.  With Huxley."

There's another lull, one that we both ease into before we trade utensils.

"... Okay, you told me that Ezra didn't act on your bed proposal because you were drunk.  Which I respect,"  Tamela levels me with a glare but is surprisingly good at alleviating the tension.  "Can't believe you offered yourself up like that in front of me.  I can't get that memory out of my head.  He looked like he wanted to eat you."

"Eat—?"  I redden further, the tips of my ears itchy with heat.  I cross my legs.  "No.  That ordeal was taken out of context, first of all.  I wasn't offering myself."

"Sure.  Just relentlessly pleading to share his bed."  She hums, unconvinced.  "Go on."

"... Well, to make you feel better.  This isn't anything about a chase."  I shrug, trying to come across unfazed by it all, "to summarize, Ezra rejected — um.  Me."

"... Rejected."

"Not, all of it.  Obviously, I'm going to live there.  I'm going to find a job, go to therapy, and all that.  But we're going to be friends."  I bite my lip.  "He said he's not around much."

I try to sound satisfied and confident relaying the information, though disappointment still permeates the air.  Tamela takes a moment to ponder the fact, then shoots up onto her elbows, shocked,

"Rejected?"

I nod past the shame, abrupt and straightforward, and stab my leftover pasta with my fork.

"He said he wants to get to know me, and for me to get to know him, and for us to be friends."

"... Friends."  Tamela nods slowly.  Then she tilts her head, "friends?"

"Friends."

"Oh,"  she ducks her head, "oh.  God.  I don't pick up on anything.  Is this why I'm single?"

"Maybe."

We eat, staring at the city lights below through my now curtain-less window.   When Tamela finally scrapes the last portion of her food from the corner of her takeout box, she wrinkles her nose,

"Can I still pick on you for having a crush on him?"

I sigh.  Then I reluctantly nod.

"... Okay, so.  For heaven's sake, do not take this as another inner bitch possession.  I promise to exorcise her."

I regard my friend mildly, and whatever expression I wear must be curious enough for her to continue past her hesitancy.

"... Since this is not a crush.  He may not want to stare at a wall with you, after all."  She cringes a little like she feels sorry for saying it.  "And you're not the best conversationalist..."

I scowl.

"Thanks for that."

"Consider this," Tamela's lips thin into a pout, "maybe you should politely offer to ride back to him to Huxley?  Take the last couple of boxes here with you?"

"The rest of my stuff is in your car."  I blink.  Tamela rolls her eyes, leaning her weight back onto her palms.  "Then I'll be at his house."

"With distractions and separate rooms — with furniture, in the event that things get awkward." She supplies.  "And I'll meet you out there this week with the rest of your stuff, when I have an overwhelmingly annoying and recent desperation for diner pancakes."

"Oh."  I glance at the two small boxes in the corner, backed into the space near my empty bedroom.  "But then — I won't need to come back."

"Exactly."

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